


The awful daring of a moment’s surrender

by cosmickaiju



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Dissociation, Gen, Nonbinary Character, Sometimes Coping with existence is hard, Synesthesia, also tentoo IS the doctor and the bbc can catch these fists
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-25
Updated: 2019-10-25
Packaged: 2021-01-02 21:00:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21167789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmickaiju/pseuds/cosmickaiju
Summary: Sometimes, even a powerful cosmic entity needs an anchor in the storm.





	The awful daring of a moment’s surrender

There are days where they can't tune back in, where silence buzzes in their ears, (though it’s not silence, not properly, there's too much going on in their other dimensions), and in the corners of their vision, a sharp tang on the back of their tongue (as if sensations would be relegated to merely one input— this 21st century is a bit tangier than their own). They blink uncomprehendingly at the humans, eyes glazing over as the vague shapes of them exude just the right hue of blue for worry, and they think, perhaps, they're meant to be worried too, but emotion's yet another thing settled just out of reach.   
  
It's only much, much later that the panic settles in, when the connection to their dimensions doesn’t click back into place. They think, perhaps, they're hyperventilating, as they desperately twist metaphorical dials in their brains’ synapses, searching for a way back. Perhaps their limbs latch onto whatever they can find, hands-not hands grasping at matter they can't quite interact with, fresh, strong pulses of blue-bright almost sweeping them away with the sudden intensity. Frustration-panic-fear lances through their being, tangibly their own emotions this time, bubbling at the back of their throat, at the back of their spine, at the back of their very being, vying to get out. Desperate, babbling syllables fall from their mouth (or perhaps are merely produced from nothing), the lilting, echoing sounds pleading with the universe that pays them no mind.  
  
It's even longer still, until they finally settle back into their flesh body, access three dimensions tangible once again. They think they might be crying, and their scalp burns something fierce, hands releasing an iron grip on their hair, joints in their fingers stiff and clunky from disuse. The warm yellow-orange relief almost overwhelms them, as two faces peer down at their folded frame— a quick peek at the timelines quickly tells them it's Rose and Cass.   
  
One of them reaches out, perhaps to check they're okay, perhaps to help them up, but they recoil almost before she moves, desperate to avoid the input of touch, even if their abilities are what they once used to be.   
  
'Please don't--' they hear themselves breathe, voice hoarse and barely there from minutes-hours of silence. They're still disconnected from themselves a bit, still not quite slotted back into place, but at least they're tangible.  
  
'Disconnected too long... everything too... too much.' They think they force a smile, try to ignore the tinge of blue creeping back in on them. They're sure they'll be fine (or at least as fine as this body can ever be) in a few moments. They offer a weak little wiggle of their fingers, attempt to muster up some semblance of their usual bounce (Tigger, she’d once called them).  
  
‘Touch telepath, remember?’   
  
The figure, no, Cass, leans back from them, glances towards Rose. ‘You forgot to mention the bit about them being able to read my thoughts, I feel like that’s a _bit_ important.’   
  
‘There’s lots about ‘em that’s important, and dangerous! Don’t blame me for sparin’ a few details for the sake of time! ‘Sides, they’re not that sort of rude.’  
  
Something about the way they’re being talked about, like they’re not still here sits wrong in their stomach, rubs against their being in the wrong way. When they speak again their voice sounds small, fragile. Not like them, not like how they’re supposed to be. They’re the Doctor, they should be doing the reassuring.   
  
‘I— I’m still here, yes?’   
  
At least their words draw the others’ attention, and they both turn to look at them. Something about their gazes, about being _perceived_ seems to settle their form down, seems to shift something that makes them feel a bit more concrete, tangible. Energy that seemed so scattered, dispersed, seems to have, at least for the moment, coalesced back into a corporeal them.   
  
“You’re still here with us. Fairly solid, even.’ Cass hesitates only a moment longer, then offers them her hand.   
  
They expect pity, when they take her hand. Instead, as they pull themself to their feet, as Rose takes their other hand all they feel amongst the thick amber is reassurance and belief.


End file.
